Prodigal (31 page)

“Tell that to the colonists.”

Kellean drew breath to respond, but Nathan turned away.

“Have you confirmed their identities?”

“No,” Kellean said, her jaw firmly set. “SEF records are still highly classified, including personnel dossiers. I know from their rank insignias that they’re senior staff—nobody below the rank of captain.” She shifted over to the console, punching up a series of stills. “But one of them I knew in a heartbeat.”

Nathan looked the images over, bracing himself. Most were military service photos, taken from press clippings that ran after the Mars disaster. Kellean mapped them with facial recognition software, then superimposed those points over the hardened features of one of the frozen survivors. They were a perfect match.

“It’s Colonel Thanis, sir.”

He nodded slowly. Nathan had expected this, but hearing the name made it more real—and drove home the political firestorm brewing back on Earth. Thanis was emblematic of the Mons disaster, a man vilified as one of the worst monsters in history. No wonder the Directorate was searching for a way to sweep this discovery under the rug.

“The man himself,” he muttered. “Which one is he?”

Kellean pointed to the tube she had been tending when Nathan walked in—the same one on which she had lavished so much attention. Now he understood why.

“You notice anything unusual about his readings?”

Kellean hesitated—long enough to make Nathan suspicious, but too short for him to ascribe any motive.

“Nothing,” she answered, waiting on his reaction. “Why?”

“No reason.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” he lied, changing his tone to divert her curiosity. “I think we both just need some sleep—Captain’s orders.”

“Okay. Just let me wrap up a few things first.”

“You need any help?”

“No,” Kellean said. “I got it.”

“Very well. Forward your findings to the bridge.”

“Aye, sir.”

She seemed anxious for Nathan to leave, fidgeting in the same spot until he was on his way. Kellean then busied herself with various tasks, looking up several times to make certain he was gone. Nathan felt that hard stare on him every step back to sickbay, where he found Masir in his office. The doctor had his feet propped up on his desk, an electronic tablet in his lap.

“You like the show?” Masir asked.

“Very educational,” Nathan said, gesturing toward the lab. “How many others do you have working the sphere?”

“Myself, a couple of staff—but mostly the lieutenant. She refuses to leave.”

“She spend a lot of time alone in there?”

“More than is healthy,” the doctor admitted, “but then I’m no slave to work.”

“Keep an eye on her.”

Masir sat up in his chair, putting the tablet aside. “A man my age spying on such a pretty girl? People will talk.”

“They already talk, Greg,” Nathan said. “And make sure you verify any labs she processes. We can’t afford any screwups—not with those bodies in there.”

“Now you sound like the captain. Is there something I should know?”

“Just covering the bases.”

“Ah,” the doctor observed. “More secrets.”

Nathan didn’t answer, but that was answer enough.

Masir shook his head sadly. “How long can this go on, Commander?”

“As long as it takes.”

He parted on that thought, heading straight for his quarters. The next watch had just started, filling the narrow corridors with a dozen conversations as crewmen turned over their duty stations. All the activity masked the omnipresence of his dream, which had followed him from the core and dogged his every step. Nathan supposed
that
had more to do with his attitude toward Kellean than her actual behavior, which was far easier to dismiss under the glare of the ship’s diurnal cycle. But when he reached his destination and the hatch closed behind him, and Nathan was all alone in his rack, the darkness asserted itself again.

And smothered him like a burial shroud.

Nathan slept with the lights on.

Almacantar,
meanwhile, arose from her slumber.

Operations continued as usual, but somewhere between the third watch and the first, the rhythms of the ship and the pulse of her crew shifted in some infinitesimal way. The rotating shifts reported nothing significant—though a few people commented that things were somehow
off,
as if time had rebooted itself and lost a few seconds. Instinctively, people tried to realign themselves, to reestablish that equilibrium under which sane individuals define their reality; but many of them were too tired, having spent the hours evading consciousness with little or no success. The rest had dreamed incessantly, though few of them remembered of what.

As the day passed, however, the business of running the ship continued apace—with some relatively minor disruptions. In engineering, a fight broke out between the crew chief and a petty officer when one accused the other of allowing reactor temperatures to build to an unsafe level; down on the flight deck, a fuel handler severed two of his fingers when he forgot to secure a tank, which broke loose and rolled over his hand; and in the officers’ mess, two junior lieutenants got into a heated argument over why one of them had been passed over for promotion. The section chiefs agreed that the crew seemed more on edge than usual, but didn’t think much of it. After so many months in space—and given the current circumstances—nobody could blame them for letting off some steam.

During that same shift, Gregory Masir treated a dozen patients who came to him complaining of persistent headaches. He examined their implants as the captain had ordered, but found nothing out of the ordinary—just heightened stress and agitation, typical for insomnia. Masir sent them on their way with a mild shot of painkillers, and logged the visits so Farina could view them later. Beyond that, he paid them little mind.

And so the first watch passed to the second.
Almacantar
’s corridors fell dim, mimicking nightfall, which sent officers off to the wardroom and noncoms to prowl the decks—searching out whatever diversions they could find to keep their minds off sleep. Some of them drank. Others gambled. Those lucky enough to arrange sex rolled each other in the murky, familiar places. The rest could do nothing but wait, and watch the crest of Mars rise and fall outside their windows.

And deny the darkness gathering within.

Central Park West was something of a relic, one of the few zones in Manhattan that hadn’t changed significantly since the late twenty-first century. Standing in the shadows of the stratotowers that dominated the rest of the island, Art Deco high-rises lined the pavement like reminders of a less vulgar time, their elegant spires tapering into a skyline within a skyline—an architectural oasis, complementing the acres of green on the other side of the boulevard. Even the pulser grids did not reach here, leaving the night sky clean and open.

Lea Prism arrived after dark, climbing out of the limousine that took her past the Midtown security checkpoints. Nobody got anywhere near this part of town without a special clearance—one of the many amenities that made its real estate the most coveted in the world. Only the richest of the rich could afford to buy privately, and even then the mortgage on an apartment could run for generations. The rest got in through corporate or
Yakuza
connections—a perk the Collective reserved for senior executives and top-echelon gangsters. As Lea looked up at the Chancery, its white granite edifice bathed in moonlight, she wondered how the hell a midlevel shadow counsel like Trevor Bostic could rise to such heights on the company dime. Underneath that officious veneer of his, the man clearly had some political skills.

Lea walked up to the entrance, where a uniformed doorman greeted her with a smile and a nod—another old-world touch to round out the ambience of the place. “Good evening, Miss Prism,” he said warmly, as if she had visited a hundred times before. “Mr. Bostic sent down word that we should be expecting you.”

“Did he?” Lea replied suspiciously. “Should I be worried?”

“Not at all,” the doorman laughed, and stood aside for her. “Please go right in. Ask for Alexis at the front desk. She’ll provide all the assistance you need.”

Lea wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but didn’t ask any questions as she went inside. An ornate marble foyer opened up around her in elegant black and white, carved pillars holding up trey ceilings and flanked by walls bejeweled with paintings and prints from a jazz age. Lea immediately became acutely aware of her attire, which consisted of the uniform jacket she had thrown on top of her civilian clothes. That rumpled ensemble earned her the conspicuous notice of those she passed. The women, with their designer labels and sleek evening wear, cast an especially harsh glare, sizing up Lea’s youth and appearance before averting their stares—a forced attempt to appear polite after letting slip their brazen contempt.

Lea ignored them for the most part and strolled over to the reception desk. There, she found Alexis exactly as advertised. She approached Lea with what appeared to be genuine interest—although given her age and bearing, the rest of her remained in question. A full-length, cutting-edge gown clung tautly to the curves of her perfectly proportioned body. Lea guessed cosmetic surgery, based on her symmetrical features and porcelain skin, even though she allowed a few wisps of silver in an otherwise flawless mane of black hair.

“Hello, Miss Prism,” Alexis said, even more pleasantly than the doorman. “Mr. Bostic is pleased you could join him this evening.”

“I don’t believe there was much choice involved,” Lea admitted. “He doesn’t exactly take no for an answer.”

“Not many of them do, my dear.”

That forced a smile out of Lea.

“They do seem to enjoy flexing their muscles,” she agreed. “So where might I find our Mr. Bostic, anyway?”

“He’s around,” Alexis told her, a hint of mischief in her voice. “You’ll be seeing him shortly. In the meanwhile, he instructed me to provide for your every need.”

“And what might those be?”

She gave Lea’s outfit a single glance, not saying anything but speaking volumes.

“Don’t tell me,” Lea said.

“Not to worry,” Alexis said, as the two of them walked toward the promenade of shops on the lower level. “Mr. Bostic arranged for appropriate attire—a little something we had flown in from Paris for a special occasion.”

“I could tell you some stories about Paris.”

“It’s an amazing city, isn’t it?”

“You have no idea.”

Lea strode across the lobby, the bladelike heels on her feet forcing her to go slowly. The shoes were a perfect match for the long sapphire gown Alexis had provided—camouflage for her trip through hostile territory, complete with a diamond necklace on loan from the Chancery’s jewelry pavilion. Lea was amazed at how easily she blended in, even though she still felt like an interloper.
Probably part of Bostic’s game,
she thought, preparing herself as she stepped onto the elevator that would take her to the top of the building. It wasn’t much different from all that time she spent at CSS—or the Works, for that matter. Everything in her life was a covert operation. This exercise was no different.

The elevator opened onto a quiet landing, mahogany walls taking on a deep ruby hue in simulated gaslight. On this part of the floor there was only one apartment, which Lea found at the end of the corridor. As she got closer, she heard the muffled sound of voices on the other side of the door—a constant din, which made her wonder if she had arrived at the wrong place; but the number was correct, exactly as Alexis had described. Not knowing what else to do, Lea rang the doorbell. A moment later, yet another servant answered.

“Miss Prism,” he said. “Please come in.”

Behind him, the stilted laughter of a cocktail party filled the room. As Lea walked in, she saw at least twenty people engaged in the veiled banter of corporate executives—men and women in power attire, sipping martinis from glasses with iridescent ice, framed against expansive windows that looked upon the constellations of Manhattan. One by one, they fell silent as Lea entered their presence, a surge of nudged elbows and whispers diverting stares toward this new arrival.